


Had to be you

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Some Like It Hot (1959)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is that you, Mrs. Fielding?” said Osgood.</p>
<p>“Sure,” said Jerry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had to be you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/gifts).



A rush of cold air, and Jerry could hear the bathroom door click shut.

 

“Mrs. Fielding?” called Osgood.

 

Jerry couldn’t help it. There was nothing to worry about, but still: this surge of panic. “Yes, Mr. Fielding?” Daphne called back.

 

“I had a word with the bellhop, and he had a recommendation for where we might go dancing.”

 

“Dancing!” said Daphne. “I do like dancing.”

 

“Then it’s settled,” said Osgood. “We’ll go after dinner.” Another puff of air and the door clicked shut again.

 

Jerry rinsed the soap out of his hair carelessly, and winced when some of it go in his eye. “Son of a—” He hesitated, as he did so often these days, and wondered what Daphne would say under these circumstances. He gave it a try, feeling only slightly foolish.

 

“Oh my,” said Daphne.

 

“Well, fiddlesticks!” said Daphne.

 

“Saints alive!” said Daphne.

 

“Son of a bitch,” said Daphne, sending Jerry into a silent fit of laughter.

 

With the shower off, Jerry toweled off and listened to Osgood humming in the next room. Occasionally, he would come out with snatches of lyrics, none of which fit the tune he had picked (which Jerry could vaguely identify as “Makin’ Whoopee”), but which all came together to make a certain kind of sense.

 

_It had to be you, it had to be you._

_I wandered around and finally found the somebody who_

 

_haunts my reverie_

_And I am once again with you_

 

_Blue skies_

_Smiling at me_

 

_We've got heaven right here on earth_

_With those beautiful queens_

_Way down yonder in New Orleans_

He’d been singing that last one off and on since they’d arrived.

 

One thing was clear – it was a love song and Jerry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, blushing. “Oh, shove off, Daphne,” he muttered.

 

“Shove off yourself,” his own expression seemed to say in reply.

 

Jerry picked up his powder and set to work.

 

The bar was— Well, it was not exactly what Jerry had expected. Osgood, it was clear, was not at all surprised by the men dancing around them. He was grinning the full grin, clapping along decidedly off beat to the music, and in general looking so delighted that Daphne could have pinched his cheeks.

 

“Zowie!” exclaimed Osgood, once they found a table. “Did you ever see such a place?”

 

“No,” said Daphne, with a four-ish years at Sheboygan in her tone. “I most certainly have not.”

 

“Would you care to dance?” said Osgood, already rising and extending his arm.

 

Not since the train platform had Daphne felt less like Daphne. “No thanks,” she said. “I could take a drink, though.”

 

“Of course!” said Osgood, beaming with new purpose, and vanished into the crowd.

 

Jerry sat and waited and felt like a fraud. No one else was wearing a dress. No one else was sitting with their stomach turning over and over and some voice inside insisting that this was a step too far.

 

Really, Jerry thought aggressively back, _this_ is the step too far?

 

But the voice, which sounded remarkably like his mother, shot back. You’re a man in a dress and everyone in this room _knows_.

 

Jerry could feel himself wilting. By the time Osgood came back with the drinks, Daphne was sitting dejectedly, plucking at the beaded hem of her dress.

 

Osgood took his seat next to her. “Sweetheart.” He covered her hand with his. “You look beautiful tonight.”

 

“This isn’t right,” said Daphne. “We shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Why on earth not?” said Osgood.

 

“Because we—” Jerry stopped. “Because this place isn’t for people like us,” Daphne continued. “It’s for people like them.”

 

“Oh,” said Osgood. “I didn’t realize.” He looked around. “But, you know, this is a very good song, and I don’t think anyone means to make us feel unwelcome.”

 

“I’m just not quite…” Daphne began, but there was no where to go from there, because it _was_ a good song, and well played, and because Osgood was getting this look on his face that made her want to cheer him up by any means necessary.

 

And also because, what the hell, Jerry might never really understand what it was he was doing, or why it felt different from what everyone else in this room was doing, but he did know that making Osgood happy was very, very important.

 

“Yes, my love?” Osgood said.

 

“Nothing,” said Daphne, brightly. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s dance.”

 

When they went out together, it was very nearly always Daphne who accompanied Osgood. At night, it was a different story. Fairly early on, Jerry decided that if he couldn’t wear what he wanted under the covers, there was no point.

 

What he wanted varied. Some nights, it was the silk teddy Osgood had gotten him for their one-year anniversary, other nights is was pajamas. Still other nights, it was boxers and the Harvard Crew shirt Joe used to wear to impress North Shore girls. Jerry had stolen it out of their shared wash once, in a fit of pique resulting from something thoughtless Joe had done; Jerry could no longer remember what.

 

On other nights, it was nothing at all.

 

The point was, Jerry didn’t overthink it, the way he overthought almost everything else, even the things he enjoyed. When it was time for bed, it was time for bed, and he was tired or he was horny and either way there was no time to screw around with who he was today. He wore what he wore.

 

After they got back from the bar, Jerry went into the bathroom to change into pajamas. He always changed in the bathroom, even though there were no secrets between them, no mystery, not since that first time anyway. The process, though, Osgood didn’t know anything about. He’d undone Daphne a few times, but he’d never seen her being put together.

 

When Jerry stepped out of the bathroom, Osgood was already in bed with the lights out. Jerry thought at first that he was sleeping, and so he was careful not to make too much noise. For their first few years living together, Jerry and Joe had shared a one bedroom on North Avenue, and Joe would crash in and out like a herd of wild buffalos, and couldn’t take a hint, no matter how hard Jerry pressed the pillow over his ears.

 

So Jerry knew how to be quiet in a room.

 

“Is that you, Mrs. Fielding?” said Osgood.

 

“Sure,” said Jerry, allowing himself to move with ease now that there was no need for stealth. He moved to hang his dress in the wardrobe. “Were you expecting someone else?”

 

“Just you,” said Osgood, pulling back the covers.

 

“Are you tired?” Jerry asked.

 

“A little,” said Osgood. “You know how to tire an old man out.”

 

Jerry snorted. “Was or was that not you, dragging me up for dance after dance at the end?”

 

“You were irresistible,” said Osgood. “There was no point in resisting.”

 

Jerry cleared his throat. “That place. I don’t—” He paused. He had to make this clear. He almost wished he had worn the teddy instead, but that was not for sleepy nights like this. “I don’t want to go back there, darling,” said Daphne.

 

Osgood blinked, confusion written all over his big, expressive face. “Why not? I thought you had a good time, in the end.”

 

“I did,” said Jerry. “I just think we could have an even better time if I went wearing something slightly different. Save that dress for, I don’t know, sightseeing and so on.”

 

Slowly, Osgood’s brow unfurrowed and his mouth opened wide in a smile. “I have a suit you could borrow!” he said.

 

“Swell,” said Jerry, smiling too, now. “Just swell.”

 

 

*****

 

The saxophone stopped when they knocked, and then started up again. The door opened. “Ooooh!” said Sugar. “Daphne! That coat is—” She opened the door a little further. “Oh my, Osgood! Joe, come help him!”

 

Kansas City was beset by wet, heavy snow that Christmas, and Daphne was in charge of holding the umbrella above Osgood’s head so the mountain of presents he was carrying would not be destroyed. The height difference had to be good for something.

 

The saxophone stopped again, and Joe came to the door. “What the. Osgood, the two of you are spoiling Junior.”

 

“He sees us once a year,” said Daphne. “If anyone’s spoiling him, it’s you.”

 

Joe smiled shyly in Daphne’s direction and then glanced away. He took four presents from Osgood, lightening the load, and the four of them went inside.

 

Joe Jr., who was two and a half, came barreling down the hall, shrieking. In his hand, he held a small toy trumpet.

 

“He takes after his parents, I see!” said Osgood, jovially.

 

“It’s the babysitter’s fault,” said Sugar. “She bought him the trumpet and he hasn’t put it down since. Thank God it doesn’t make any noise.”

 

As if to illustrate this point, Junior put his lips to it and gave a mighty blow. The toy emitted the sound of spit-wet air and went silent. He lowered it again, triumphantly, turned, and ran away again.

 

“He’s a handful,” said Sugar, glowing.

 

“You look happy,” said Daphne.

 

“We are!” said Sugar. She took Daphne by the waist. “We both have work. This is a great city for jazz.”

 

“A little cold for me,” said Osgood.

 

“How’s New Orleans?” Joe asked.

 

They took their drinks into the living room and Osgood told Joe and Sugar all about the Burgundy Street house he and Daphne bought and remodeled. “We just couldn’t leave,” said Osgood. “We fell in love with the place.”

 

“Osgood,” said Sugar, after a comfortable silence. “Would you come help me with something in the kitchen? I need an assistant.”

 

Osgood glanced at Joe.

 

“Don’t look at me,” said Joe. “I haven’t been allowed in there since the good china met its maker.”

 

“It would be my honor,” said Osgood, standing and giving Daphne’s knee a squeeze in the process. He followed Sugar into the kitchen, leaving Joe and Daphne alone.

 

Five minutes ticked by. “That’s a lovely—” Daphne began, just as Joe said, “Look, Jerry, I—”

 

Both stopped, waiting for the other to go on.

 

“Daphne, I mean, I—”

 

“Jerry’s fine,” said Jerry.

 

Joe looked miserable, and his eyes were fixed on the carpet in front of the Christmas tree as if he had done everything but work up the nerve. Finally, he said, “The last time you were here I said some unforgiveable things. I was a heel. I wouldn’t’ve blamed you if you never came back again.”

 

In the kitchen, Sugar and Osgood were laughing.

 

“I thought about it,” said Jerry. “But what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t return to put you through this agony?”

 

“I’m serious,” said Joe. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand, but I can tell you’re happy, so…” He trailed off then, for the first time since they’d arrived, brought his eyes up and met Daphne’s. “Friends?” he extended his hand.

 

“Always,” said Daphne, sticking hers out as well.

 

Joe looked as if he were about to shake it, but then at the last moment—apparently surprising even himself, if the look on his face was anything to go by—brought his lips down to kiss it. He colored, squeeze Daphne’s hand in both of his, and then, finally, released it. “Good,” he said. “Because it’s time to stop lying to the neighbors. I need a best man.” He looked up again. “Unless—”

 

Daphne was about to cry. Jerry banished the thought, nodding vehemently. “Of course, Joe,” he said, and if his voice cracked a little, that was nobody’s business. “Of course. I always was.”

 

Osgood and Sugar came out of the kitchen. “All right, boys,” said Osgood. “Dinner’s ready.”

 

Joe’s eyebrows climbed his forehead.

 

Sugar saw this and laughed. “That’s right, girls. While you’ve been talking, we prepared a feast.”

 

 

*****

 

Jerry overheard the news of Little Bonaparte’s death. A visitor from Chicago was walking down Bourbon Street, talking to her friend about crime in her hometown. “And then that other man was killed, I’m sure you heard. That Little Bonaparte. Shot in that restaurant on Garfield along with all his henchmen.”

 

Jerry nearly sprained a neck muscle trying to hear the rest of the conversation, but the women were walking too fast, and that was the important part, anyway. They could stop running. They could go home.

 

He started walking a little faster, and then nearly stopped. Go back to Chicago? Joe would never leave Kansas City, not now with everything going so well for him musically and with their second child on the way. Phoning him up to tell him of Little Bonaparte’s death wasn’t even worth the money the call would cost. Missouri was home, now, for Joe and for Sugar.

 

And for Jerry, well, he could feel a smile sliding onto his face. There was only one place that was home, and there was a stack of Rudy Vallée records in the corner of the living room, a marling mounted on the wall, stairs that squeaked, and a wardrobe half-filled with dresses.

 

That was home.

 

Jerry opened the door. “Osgood!” Daphne called. “I have such a story to tell you.”


End file.
